


POI Short Stories

by astolat



Series: POI works [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Meme of Interest, Multi, POI Hiatus Fic, Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, mini-fills, multiple stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:58:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This work collects my short POI pieces (mostly posted originally on Tumblr or at the kinkmeme). New stories will be posted as separate chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Proxy

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: most of these will be Finch/Reese because that's how I roll, but there may be other characters and pairings and tags appropriate to individual stories, and different warnings may apply to different stories. I'll mention in notes if I think it matters, but YMMV, so please caveat lector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://astolat.tumblr.com/post/44279434867/proxy) for a prompt by regonym.

“So tell me what you like,” she says, biting his neck lightly, her perfect nails drawing fine parallel lines down his back, and John has no idea what to say; she’s attractive, he’s turned on, he’s flexible: but he knows that’s not the right answer, the answer that will get him inside the apartment with the bugs they need to plant. He’s only gotten this far letting Finch talk through him. 

“I’d like,” he says, panting, and after a brief pause Finch tells him softly, in his ear, “— anything you’d like to do to me,” and she makes a humming, encouraging noise, inviting more as her hand toys with his belt; Finch says, “Anything that makes your mouth dry just to think about,” and tells John to stroke his thumb down alongside the curve of her spine, over the thin silk of her dress. 

She smiles, satisfied, and hauls him in the door by his belt buckle. John plants the bugs on the entryway coatrack, on the underside of her dining table, last one on the edge of the nightstand, and then she’s pushing him down on the bed. She murmurs, “What if I told you that I’d like to tie you up and hurt you a little and then ride you for a long long time?” John is shuddering, panting, lifting his hips so she can strip off his pants and briefs. He turns his head to the side, ear pressed against the sheets, and when he says, “Yes,” he hears Harold’s breath catch. 

She ties him with soft scarves he could get out of easily and uses a wide belt on him, not hard, sensation more than pain by his standards. She keeps talking to him, a low purr, asking him what he wants next, and Harold tells him; Harold says, “Let me turn over,” and when she nods and unties the scarves John turns over, and she slaps him with four hot sweet strokes, criss-cross over his ass, and then she leans over and murmurs, “Can I put on my strap-on and fuck you, John?” 

He’s sweating, writhing against the sheets, but he doesn’t answer right away; he listens, and listens, silently pleading, and then Harold says, very quietly, “Yes,” and John shudders all over and repeats it, says yes, says it again and again, hands clenched around the scarves as she fucks him with Harold gasping in his ear, saying softly, “John — oh, John.”


	2. Tailoring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://astolat.tumblr.com/post/42685128169/esteefee-why-such-a-dearth-of) in response to a gifset/plea by estefee

Finch apparently wasn’t satisfied just to tug on the pant legs; he had to run his hands down from John’s thigh to his ankle, warm and firm.  

“It’s fine.” John hoped the edge in his voice sounded like he was annoyed rather than on the verge of getting Finch in the eye with a hard-on, but he wasn’t all that confident about it. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like he had to worry: Finch was more concerned about the cuffs than the content.  

At least, that was what he assumed at the time; the second time Finch arbitrarily ordered him into an impromptu tailoring session without the excuse of sending him on a mission, John started to get a little bit suspicious, and by the third one, he was pretty sure, because if Harold was still missing the fact that John was spoiling the line of his pants before he even finished standing up, he probably shouldn’t have been adjusting suits in the first place. 

“Harold,” John said, a little reproachfully, “no one likes a tease.” 

Harold, on his knees, paused; he didn’t look up, but John saw the corner of his mouth curl upwards slightly. “Really, Mr. Reese? You seemed to be enjoying yourself.” 

“I could be enjoying myself  _more_ ,” John said, feeling pretty urgent about it now. 

Harold slid his hands deliberately up John’s thighs, thumbs riding the inseam. John inhaled sharply and leaned into his touch. “Perhaps in a few more fittings,” Harold said.


	3. Biting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on Tumblr](http://astolat.tumblr.com/post/43375872354/no-surrender-no-retreat-biting-yep-sadly) for a prompt by no-surrender-no-retreat

The first time Harold sets teeth in his throat and tentatively bites down, just hard enough that it’s going to leave a mark, John can’t breathe during, afterwards: it makes his breath stutter and catch and  _stop_  in his chest, and he’s half arched up off the sheets, trembling and suspended for one dizzy, unseeing moment; his cock jerks desperately in Harold’s grip.  

“Ah,” Harold murmurs, licking his tongue soothingly over the bite, “I thought so.” 

Later, with John’s thighs marked, and his hips, the insides of his elbows, his nipples, every part of his body almost unbearably alive and stinging, Harold’s teeth scrape delicately, carefully, deliberately, along the underside of John’s cock, and John moans in desperation and tries not to move. 


	4. Strings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for a prompt by lelied: _Reese attempts to date!_

Reese knows he can’t have a relationship, not without compromising himself, but he thinks maybe he can have something — a nice dinner out, a little conversation, making out in a dark booth or getting asked up for coffee and casual sex.

He tries, but the only thing he manages to get is the casual sex; any woman who tries to have a conversation hits the wall of his secrets and silence, and the only ones who stay interested are looking for a strings-free one night stand. And he does like the sex, at first, but when he realizes it’s all he can have, it starts to taste like ash.

He breaks off the last date abruptly, in the foyer of her apartment building, and on some homing instinct walks thirty blocks north and four blocks crosstown in five-below windchill, back to the library. He goes upstairs blowing on his hands; Harold is there, making himself a fresh cup of tea. He looks at John and doesn’t ask, just nods and takes down a second mug, and John blindly crosses the room to him, without conscious thought, and finds heat and lingering sweetness in his mouth.


	5. Staying Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted on tumblr](http://astolat.tumblr.com/post/43369789300/managerie76-reese-finch-argue-over-finch) for a prompt by managerie76: _Reese & Finch argue over Finch going under cover. As a last ditch effort Reese says Finch needs to stay home with Bear._

At first Harold’s staring at him like John’s lost his mind, but then his expression narrows into concentration, and John has the uncomfortable feeling he’s just become a problem to be solved, when as far as he’s concerned, it’s pretty straightforward: he’s changed his mind about having Harold in the field, especially in a situation like this; he’s not talking about sneaking into someone’s apartment, he’s planning to put himself out there as the hacker the gang is trying to hire. 

The risk is unacceptably high: John’s not going to have Harold spending several days in close proximity to five killers while he’s on the outside, too far away, and if he has to order Bear to pen Harold into the library to keep him from putting himself in that position, he will. 

It’s purely rational, whether Harold likes it or not, and John clenches his jaw and gives him a flat look, refusing to bend, even while a cold knot is building in the pit of his stomach at the processing he can  _see_  going on behind Harold’s eyes; and then Harold says softly, “John — ” and slowly, terribly, reaches to put his hand on John’s face. 


	6. Sex Pollen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for a prompt by reallyprivateperson: _a redux of the sex pollen, with Finch as the one affected_.

John’s spent all day cuffing people to fences and zip-tying them to bedposts to let the drug wear off, and he’s tired enough to just be grateful that Finch proves unusually willing to take no for an answer.

— okay, fine, he’s also instantly and gleefully making plans in the back of his head to slink around the library for the next few weeks and unbutton his shirt a little too much and generally give Harold a hard time, but a man has to take his small pleasures where he can, and John considers it unfair to be taunted with what he can’t have. 

He does recognize his mistake about thirty seconds later, but by then it’s too late. 


	7. Asking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted to meme-of-interest](http://meme-of-interest.dreamwidth.org/1507.html?thread=199139#cmt199139) for the anon prompt _Finch gives him everything he needs_.

"Please?" John asks, and rolls his hips against Harold's hand. "Please -- " except he doesn't even need to say it twice; Harold is already sliding his fingers out, pressing his cock inside, thick and blunt and hot.   
  
"More?" John asks, and Harold gives him more, as much as he wants, as quickly as he wants, sliding deep, an almost painful stretch that is exactly what John wants, what he's aching for.   
  
"Harder?" John asks, his face buried against pillows, muffled; he's braced against the couch, legs spread wide. Harold is panting against him, huff-huff of his breath on John's shoulderblades as he labors, working, and he drags in a deep breath and does it, fucks John even harder, rocking him back and forth, even though his own breath comes harsh and gulping and desperate.   
  
"Again?" John asks, afterwards, even though he's still shuddering and Harold is limply sprawled on his back, and Harold groans softly and says, "Now you're deliberately being difficult," but he still  _does_  it, bends his head and kisses the nape of John's neck, tip of his tongue darting to lick away a drop of sweat, presses two fingers to John's body and then a third, and -- god -- a fourth, eases them in and thrusts gently, rhythmically, his thumb braced against John's ass.   
  
John closes his eyes and presses his forehead against Harold's other arm, shuddering.  _It's not that I don't believe you,_ he wants to say.  _It's just taking me a while to get used to the idea._


	8. Spanking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted to the meme-of-interest](http://meme-of-interest.dreamwidth.org/1507.html?thread=144099#cmt144099) for an anon spanking prompt.

The day after he saves John on a rooftop, Harold spanks him for the first time.   
  
They sleep in John's apartment. In the morning Harold turns off his telephone and unplugs John's landline, gives a few quiet orders, and John spends the day spread out naked on his own bed -- oh, the  _luxury_  of having his own bed, that's also Harold's bed, the bed Harold got him. Harold spanks him with a wide paddle of smooth, heavy, polished wood, and then strokes his hands over the sore hot redness, kneading it into John's muscles.   
  
John groans and writhes under it, wondering if Harold is going to fuck him, too. He isn't sure if he wants it or not. He isn't sure if he wants the spanking or not, either, although the fact he took off all his clothes when Harold told him to and lay down under it for an hour suggests that apparently he does.  
  
Harold rubs oil all over him and then spanks him some more, another solid hour of the hard meaty smack of the wood on John's buttocks and thighs. John's eyes start leaking tears, slowly at first, and then a little quicker, gasps starting to break out of him, and then Harold puts his hand on the back of John's neck and says softly, "Yes, John, there you go, there," and bends and kisses him softly, in a line: nape of the neck, hollow of the back, and John's crying, outright crying; involuntary and so good, and then Harold puts away the paddle and lies down next to him and holds him while John slowly and quietly weeps in his arms, for hours.   
  
Afterwards, Harold lowers the blinds and turns off all the lights and covers John up warmly. He putters around him in the apartment, a faint reassuring presence, the soft click-click-click of the keys as he types, brief whistle of the kettle. John drifts somewhere short of sleep, somewhere utterly quiet.   
  
Later that evening, after dark, he gets up and showers. When he comes out, Harold is putting out Chinese food. They eat dinner together. John reaches out and takes Harold's hand in both of his and kisses it. Harold leans over and kisses him, then takes him to bed. John shudders beneath him, joyfully, relieved.


	9. Constricting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small chunk of a story I don't want to write, which involves John saving Harold from many improbable very-near-death experiences, pretty much as an excuse for this scene, which begins after the fourth one, death by boa constrictor.

John sat in the car with his hands clenched around the steering wheel without starting the ignition. His heart was still hammering back and forth against the walls of his chest. It was three in the morning and the Forest Hills side street was deserted. 

Harold sat disheveled and limp in the passenger seat staring straight ahead over the running board. His breath was coming more evenly now. Eventually he sighed heavily and reached up and loosened his tie, a weary sawing back and forth. "I must admit, it would certainly have been a _colorful_ way to -- " 

John turned convulsively, grabbed Harold by the face and kissed him, fast and deep. Harold's hands made startled flutters between them. John kissed him until he couldn't reasonably keep ignoring the fact that he was doing it, and then he let go and sat back into the driver's seat and clutched the wheel again. He stared straight out at the black fire hydrant sitting under the solitary street lamp. "Sorry," he said. 

Harold didn't say anything. He was staring out at the street, too. He blinked three times. Then he canted himself towards John and said incredulously, "What?" with the vowel stretched to three syllables on a rising pitch.

John didn't exactly look at him. He turned just a little, darted his eyes sideways, and then he caught Harold's face wide-open and bewildered, as if he didn't know, as if he _didn't know_ , and then John was kissing him again, desperately, and climbing up over the stick. 

Harold had the gall to keep radiating surprise at him, even while kissing him back. John reached down the front of Harold's seat to yank up the bar and shove it back as far as it would go, making room for his six feet in the footwell, and then he grabbed for the recline lever. Harold tipped back in the seat with a muffled squawk, his fingers tightening in John's hair. John didn't care. He started working on Harold's belt with shaking hands. 

Whenever he'd imagined anything like this, Harold had always made the first move. "Mr. Reese, would you please get on your knees for me," in extremely polite tones, using his mouth with careful deliberate strokes, petting his hair; in control from start to finish, firm knowing hand on the reins. 

Instead Harold lay back staring out of the sunroof with an astonished expression on his face, and when John got his pants open he managed to crane himself up and said, "John, are you _sure_ you -- oh," stifled, and fell back with a thump. 

But he did start petting John's hair, with confused tenderness, and afterwards, when John lay panting with arms wrapped around Harold's chest, cheek pressed to his skin to feel the reassuring rise and fall of his breath, Harold said softly, lovingly, "I think we'd better go home." 


End file.
